


we've only lost the night

by blackidyll



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015)
Genre: Driving, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 12:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6239707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackidyll/pseuds/blackidyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The trains and Tube lines are Q’s preferred modes of transportation, partly because he doesn’t need to be in control when he takes either and partly because of how they are constructed, the stations connected to each other like points on a beautiful mind map. Q has his preferred routes, but the established lines of connection still allow him to navigate London through dozens of different configurations.</p><p>Bond though, Bond is a wild spirit. The independence of cars and aviation gives him the freedom to do as he pleases – no restrictions, no limits save the ones he places on himself, where he has complete control of the situation.</p><p>That Q is here, sitting in the passenger seat like the best kind of insurance, is the one limit Bond chooses to put on himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we've only lost the night

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic was inspired by Mumford & Son's "[Believe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dW6SkvErFEE)" ~~and then I went and actually watched the music video and realized how incredibly apt the visuals are for this fic~~.

Bond’s fingers are oddly cold when he takes the car keys from Q’s hand, giving Q two things to ponder when he shadows the Double-O to the car. Bond normally runs warm, giving out heat like a furnace – a consequence of his extremely active lifestyle and the fact that he thrives on adrenaline, perhaps – which makes Q wonder how long he’d been out in the cold, lurking around the perimeter of headquarters until the end of Q’s shift.

And then there’s the brush of contact, skin to skin. It could be an accident – the keys were designed with efficiency in mind, shaped to fit near perfectly in Q’s hand and making it rather difficult for anyone else to snatch out of his grip – except that Bond is very controlled and very precise in everything he does. It could be a sign of reassurance, of connection, but Q knows better. The only thing predictable about Bond is his utter unpredictability.

The interior of the car is all smooth dark lines; the lights from the dashboard cast amber and gold highlights across the panels, across the curves of Bond’s hands where they rest on the steering wheel. The leather seat hugs Q’s frame, the seatbelt holding him firmly in place when he snaps it into place, and he picks up his phone to engage the parking bay’s systems, disabling the security and unlocking the exit. He doesn’t bother badgering Bond about his own seatbelt; he knows better than to expect Bond to consider anything remotely related to his own wellbeing when he’s like this.

The engine when idling at rest is a quiet rumble of distant thunder, a suggestion of potential energy; when Bond hits the acceleration, the engine emits a low growling purr through the soundproofing, the power of the speeding car translated through sensation more than sound.

They haven’t formally named the sleek beauty that now takes up the prime spot in Q Branch’s motor bay, but each engineer has a nickname for their latest supercar. The next generation of the ill-fated DB10, its outer casing is highly reminiscent of its predecessor, although the design of the interior has been completely revamped.

The last time, Q had more or less jury-rigged gadget switches onto the DB10’s system to control the various new options – the weapons and the ejection seat – he’d added on afterwards.

This time, he’d planned for all the additions upfront, everything encased and programmed seamlessly into the car. The DB10’s successor is currently Weapons and Engineering’s crowning jewel, and if the team finds out that Q has handed the keys to their latest prototype to 007—

Well.

They can’t do a thing about it. Double-O affairs take precedence over all else and as head of Q Branch, it’s entirely Q’s prerogative who he chooses to allocate the division’s resources to.

He still knows there will be whispers of favouritism, dark murmurs that Q gives 007 entirely too much leeway because of their relationship – heavily rumoured to be genuine, although no one has been able to decisively prove it. They know better than to think that Q would be unprofessional enough to freely give out Q Branch’s secrets and their creations to a lover; it’s more that they know Bond’s reputation and his charisma too well, how the Double-O is able to turn even the most straitlaced, reticent agent to his cause. They’ve all rallied to Bond’s side before, after all – Q, Moneypenny, Tanner – and without the barriers of a strictly professional relationship, how much more would Q give in?

They’re not wrong, but they’re not right either. Q’s privileged position as Bond’s partner – and it is a privilege, to have the trust of a man who cannot trust anything but his own skill and intellect out in the field – means Q knows how to read the signs now. And Q’s position as Quartermaster means he has the resources to do something about it.

It’s the trust that allows Q to do that, to take seemingly biased actions in Bond’s favour.

London this very late at night is a beautiful vista of shadows and lights. The roads are empty enough that Bond can truly put the car through its paces, speeding fast enough that the streetlights are glowing streaks in the periphery of Q’s vision. Bond has an instinct for roads that bypass traffic lights or pedestrian crossings or anything that might conceivably slow them down – they take endless turns and loops in and out of the boroughs before hitting the tunnels and highways, leaving the few cars they encounter on the roads far behind them.

Without a constant frame of reference it’s difficult to fathom how fast they’re really going. The numbers on the dashboard should terrify Q; his heart is certainly thumping quite obviously in his chest, but not from fear of _this._

The trains and Tube lines are Q’s preferred modes of transportation, partly because he doesn’t need to be in control when he takes either and partly because of how they are constructed, the stations connected to each other like points on a beautiful mind map. Q has his preferred routes, but the established lines of connection still allow him to navigate London through dozens of different configurations.

Bond though, Bond is a wild spirit. The independence of cars and aviation gives him the freedom to do as he pleases – no restrictions, no limits save the ones he places on himself, where he has complete control of the situation.

That Q is here, sitting in the passenger seat like the best kind of insurance, is the one limit Bond chooses to put on himself.

Time was that Bond would simply disappear for a few days before breaking into Q’s flat and charming all the cats, and there would be a quiet tiredness to the man that tells Q that the Double-O has found ways to take the edge off before he can bring himself to shelter in peace and safety. It took Q some time to definitively conclude that Bond’s not _truly_ self-destructive, that he lives on adrenaline rushes and that it’s the too-long pauses in between that smothers him.

There’s a delicate balance to be struck here, and Q tries. They have enough broken pieces between them that they choose their battles wisely, and Q thinks he’s won this one – give Bond the sleekest, most powerful vehicle with innovative accessories and he’ll run it to the very limits of its potential, wild and unpredictable; give Bond the same powerful car and put Q in the passenger seat and Bond can still take the car to the height of its capabilities without throwing himself off the edge. License to kill or not, Bond always does his very best to protect civilians and his allies, anyone who is not an opponent or his specific target.

He’s going to do a lot more to safeguard Q’s life, even if it is his own competent hand on the steering wheel.

The leather seat is warm and the air cool on Q’s skin and the interplay of light and shadows chases all conscious thought from his mind, and it could easily be hours later when Bond eases the car down from their breakneck speeds, finally coming to a stop so smoothly that Q doesn’t even feel the change from motion to rest. They’re idling in the space between two streetlamps; Bond’s features are a suggestion, the edges of his face and hands just barely visible in the dimness, but Q can feel Bond’s gaze on him like a palpable touch.

They stare at each other for long moments.

“Come here,” Q finally whispers, his voice somehow coming out harsh and disruptive against the muted purr of the engine. It’s likely due to the acoustics of the car, the soundproofing; all outside sounds are absorbed and tempered, converted into ambient noise, but words, actual words have purpose, have direction, and those two words cut between him and Bond like—

_An order—_

_A leash—_

No. Intentions matter. His words are an entreaty, at most a claim. Q is here, the car they’re sitting in might be the escape that he has helped build with his own two hands, the passenger seat the space he claims for himself by Bond’s side, but in this moment Bond is in the driver’s seat in all the ways that matter. Q can coax and murmur logical reasonings and ironclad facts – never idle promises, not in their line of work – and he can lay out all the safety nets that he can conceive of, but Bond doesn’t have to listen, and he’s more than capable of taking another route, numerous escapes that take him further away from Q’s influence.

Q is a lighthouse – he can only stand, stationary, and shine out a guiding light; he can’t do anything else to stop the ships from running themselves aground. Not in a way that leaves his agents self-determination. Not in a way that leaves them a choice.

( _he could, he could, he absolutely could; he could manipulate the world to his needs, change records, wipe electrical memories, he could built a very pretty, very_ safe _birdcage for his field agents, and he can even pad the lattice so they can’t kill themselves when they crash against the bars, trying to break free—_

_But he won’t)_

The space of a heartbeat goes by, two, three; Q’s sure none of his thoughts have seeped into his expression – the darkness is a blessing – and then Bond turns fluidly, his hands rising gracefully to tip Q’s chin upward even as he closes the distance—

Bond’s fingertips are warm now, five separate marks against Q’s skin, and his mouth is hot, fitting perfectly against Q’s. Q fumbles blindly to release his seatbelt, Bond just barely letting him move away to let the belt slip back before his lips are back on Q, sliding wetly against his jaw, both hands now on Q, and Q lets go of the damned seatbelt to get his own hands on Bond.

There’s nothing amorous about Q’s actions – at least with his hands – despite the way he shudders when Bond moves on to bite at his lower lip, the way Q tilts his head to recapture Bond’s mouth, his glasses fogging up between them. He runs his hands systematically over Bond’s shoulders, down his arms to his wrists, leaving Bond’s hands where they are for now, one tangled in Q’s hair and the other curved against his throat. Q’s mind is his livelihood but deft hands and quick fingers on the keyboard, putting together a mainframe or bolting in the finishing on a sleek automobile certainly helps; he could do this with his eyes closed – unbutton Bond’s suit jacket, his hands slipping between the folds to slide firmly down Bond’s chest, noting the way muscles move under his touch, before he skims them down Bond’s sides and then – pressing even closer – down the man’s back. The dress shirt muffles Q’s touch – prevents him from really feeling the elegant curve of Bond’s spine, but it won’t hide the sticky wetness of blood or the fevered heat of an infected wound or the raised texture of bandages; pressed chest to chest, Q would be able to catch any minute hitch of breath that comes tinged with pain if he pushes against tender bruises. Bond might be a master of control, but even he can’t regulate the body’s unconscious reactions.

Q’s fingers come away unstained and the heat he feels is what is naturally generated by their proximity – he doesn’t feel any injuries, at least on Bond’s arms and torso, and the Double-O had been walking perfectly fine when they met at the parking bay, and Q turns his head to one side to break the kiss so he can catch his breath even as he finally lets his hands just tangle into Bond’s shirt like he wanted to all along. Bond licks across Q’s lips, breathes against Q’s open mouth, and Q frees one hand to slide his glasses upward to perch on his head so he can take in Bond’s intense stare, the dilated pupils, and the wry half-smile that might just be Q’s favourite expression on the man.

“Satisfied?” Bond says, his voice a deep low murmur.

Kisses are perfect, but silly as it sounds Q just really needs a hug right now, so he tugs one knee up on the seat for leverage and presses himself into Bond, lets Bond fold him indulgently into a surprisingly comfortable embrace, despite the parking break between them. Because Bond knows how to read cues as well, and he’s quite zealous about giving Q what he wants, much less what he needs, and sometimes does so even before Q quite realizes what that might be.

So Bond keeps his arms tight around Q’s waist and back, unmoving, because that’s what Q needs as he feels his heartbeat finally slow down—

( _he knows how to read the signs, after all, and so even though he wasn’t privy to 007’s latest mission, even though_ _there were no directives from M’s office to cover tracks or deal with a piece of delicate tech or any other indication that the mission had gone anything but smoothly, he knows, and that’s why he’d been waiting with car keys in hand_ )

—and Bond is pressing his lips gently against Q’s throat, warm and languid, and Q laughs quietly into Bond’s shoulder, because – yes. That’s what he wants.  

“You,” Q says, “are a terrible troublemaker.”  

“I am,” Bond says without a single hint of remorse, and he kisses Q’s skin one last time before pulling back, one hand rising to stroke through Q’s hair as he meets Q’s gaze once more. “Let’s head back.”

 _Back_ means back to Bond’s place, which is fine with Q, seeing as he doesn’t have a garage attached to his flat and there’s no way they’re going back to headquarters or anywhere work-related to drop off the car at this time of the night.

“Fine.” Q settles back in his seat and pulls his glasses back into place, watching quietly as Bond puts the car into motion once more.

“Put on your seatbelt,” Bond says, and Q shoots him a narrow-eyed glare for the hypocrisy. But Bond captures Q’s hand the moment he buckles the seatbelt into place, lacing their fingers together loosely as if to say _nothing to worry about, no need to hold on tight, this is just for us because you love it and I love you_ , and—

That, together with the expression on Bond’s face, relaxed without the edge or the tiredness of running himself down, tells Q they’ve found the balance between too deadly peace and destructive action.

Q curls his fingers into Bond’s and finally lets his eyes slide shut, no longer on the alert.


End file.
